Memory Lane

Having recently been back from our family's summer vacation had me traveling down memory lane, recalling my own childhood summers. Even though coming from a broken home and being raised primarily by a single mom, I loved being a kid. I never wanted to grow up. I still struggle with the Peter-Pan syndrome! From 6-12 years of age, my mom and I lived in a 2 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath studio apartment in Hurst, Texas. For an apartment it was really spacious and cute with harvest gold shag carpeting and appliances (gotta love the 70's). I still dream about this apartment sometimes; always feeling happy and secure there.

My summers growing up usually consisted of me visiting either my cousins in West Texas, my aunt and her family in Arlington, my grandparents in Cross Plains or my dad (wherever he was at the time). I remember when I was 9 my father lived in Miami, Fl and I went to see him. He was staying in a high-rise apartment/condo building that was owned by his wealthy El Salvadorian girlfriend (soon to be wife #2) whom was out of the country at that time. It was pretty close to the beach and the building had it's own pool and tennis courts. The apartment was on the 7th floor. I remember this because I spent most of my days, unless at the pool, in the elevator riding up and down the different floors. I guess my father went to work during the day and left me to my own devices??? I remember getting to know the staff in the lobby and the maids pretty well. Being in Miami, there were a lot of Spanish-speaking or elderly Jewish residents, but not very many kids. Perhaps my father asked the elderly Jewish lady next door to keep an eye out for me, or perhaps we ran into each other in the elevator, but I remember her inviting me over to have lunches and sometimes dinners with she and her husband. Their apartment was very clean but smelled stuffy and musty...like moth balls. Our meals mostly consisted of "pickled" something or an olive loaf or some other concoction that my Texas pallet wasn't accustomed to. I remember not liking the food, but the sweet woman would always give me a chocolate bar or other treat to take home. I remember talking with the Puerto Rican maintenance man who commented on how well I spoke English. I just thanked him and smiled, secretly glad that he assumed I was something other than what I was. I loved making up new identities for myself (different names and accents) when meeting strangers. I was always in my own little fantasy world.

Recalling this childhood memory, I should be appalled, but yet, I smile. I like the little independent girl I remember. I can't even imagine leaving my 9 year old alone all day to wonder around a huge apartment building, but yet, it was like an amazing adventure for me. I didn't feel lonely or sad, but grown up and worldly. I always felt God was watching out for me and boy, was I right!

Why is it that I could write a book (a rather comical one) of all my childhood memories but find it difficult to sometimes recall yesterday? Hmmm....perhaps the Peter Pan in me is still alive and well...